


Loving Like Dying

by cgreene



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5098709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cgreene/pseuds/cgreene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm dipping into darkness here; at first, flirtatiously and then going all the way. Katniss mostly waxing poetic/philosophic on love and death here until she gets burned. Picks up with MJ and is mostly canon-compliant, though I add/expand/imagine a few details and change the very end (because I had to). I'm incredibly interested in reviews and would love to hear what you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trying to Figure it Out

This is:

A Lovesong for Katniss Everdeen

_(to be told in two parts)_

* * *

(in the T.S. Eliot tradition.

I don't quote songs, I quote poetry,

go ahead, judge me.)

* * *

I'm dipping into darkness here; at first, flirtatiously and then going all the way.

Katniss mostly waxing poetic/philosophic on love and death here until she gets burned.

Picks up with MJ and is  _mostly_  canon-compliant, though I add/expand/imagine a few details and change the very end (because I had to).

Warning: There are no happy endings here—

or maybe there are, it just depends how you look at it.

(and it might help to think she didn't really want one.)

So with that in mind, here it goes:

Loving Like Dying

(or

Part One:

Trying to Figure it Out)

* * *

. . .

I want to tell Gale it's not personal—it's just that I set him free from my heart when I went off to die. (he should thank me, really). Only I never got to tell him. They didn't let me say good bye that time. Not that it matters much, I suppose, they'd prevented him from telling me he loved me the first time around (I may not have realized it then, but I know it now), and they prevented me from telling him I didn't love him next (and I did, love him that is, I figured at least that bit out, but I had to let him go).

But I never got to say it.

(I never got to die either, actually, and that's complicating things.)

So it goes.

I wonder if I should tell him now, though I'm not sure which part (the loving or the not loving—it's so complicated.  _which part is true?_ ). I end up only telling him the part where I'm supposed to be dead. (Though I can't quite say I wish I were dead—I don't know why; I certainly think it). Maybe it's because he looks at me with a rare softness (his eyes are now the color of tombstones, though not yet as hard or cold). He touches my cheek, and in that moment I can't bear to lay another death on him, however figurative (he's seen more of it than I have now—though seeing death isn't the same as causing it.)

((I think he'll learn that soon enough)).

I tell him I'll survive and offer up the rare smile that only he is able to elicit so he knows my heart's still beating.

(It might beat, but it's badly broken, all sharp edges and scars— _and he must know_ —if he tries to touch it,he'll only cut himself, bad enough to bleed, bad enough to die).

. . .

I try to wipe the blood from Gale's nose. It only made things worse. (I only make things worse—such is the story of my life.) He is nice enough not to remind me.

(happy is not the right word…but it's  _good_  to have Gale back.)

. . .

_He's alive_ , I think, with a sudden, sharp intake of breath, and for the first time (in a long time), I'm glad I am too.

. . .

And now there's Peeta...some days I tell myself it's good that I'm alive so I can get him out (though I haven't figured out how yet.) Other days I remember that if I were dead, I wouldn't have to care.

( _I like that thought more_

_than I let anyone know_.)

I strap on the Mockingjay uniform and say what they tell me to, because I owe it to Peeta to get him out.

(And I apparently owe it to Thirteen to play their part, though I'm not sure I agree with that as much).

. . .

Prim's the only one who ever bothers to ask me if I  _want_ to do it. (It doesn't really matter, I didn't have a choice, but it is nice to hear.)

It's only in her blue eyes that I see goodness (and perhaps hope?). And it's a miracle too, but she's seen her fair share of death and misery. (so much for my attempt to save her.)

When I look into them, I realize I can go on.

And I do.

. . .

The only power I've ever had, I get from  _her_.

. . .

There's another woman who asks me what I want. Her name is Alma Coin. I can't decide if I can trust her.

I give her my list:

Buttercup

Gale

Peeta

Snow

She says I can have it all.

( _but can I? really?)_

. . .

The only things I know are my name, my age, and that I have to save Peeta.

(But I think I'm starting to remember that, even though he sometimes says things that upset me and doesn't apologize, Gale the only person who can make me laugh, the only person I can trust and the only person with whom I can be myself).

((too bad the self I am now is all sorts of awful; Gale gets to know her well.))

. . .

We get to hunt and try to be our old selves again.

(It doesn't work.)

I think we might be hunting each other more than anything else.

I notice him trying to track my thoughts, following them like footprints in the brush, and capture my heart (only you can't catch a heart with a snare.)

. . .

I still have his pearl. (I don't know why, but it gives me—not hope, but comfort?)

I hold on to it some nights and remember the way he used to hold me, curled around me like a question mark. ( _would he still be a question mark if he were here now?_ )

Gale's arm could probably offer me comfort too. Sometimes, I think about going (giving?) into them. (I don't, because I'm afraid if I do, I might never come out.)

And I'd have to come back out.

To save Peeta.

(oh, and the rest of Panem).

. . .

Going to 8 reminds me how well Gale and I work together, how our bodies and minds can move as one ( _I begin to wonder if there are other ways our bodies can move like this)_. But there's no time to think about that now—because going to 8 also reminds me of everything else:

The rebels, the war, the death, the dying…

I have so much work to do.

. . .

I say what they tell me to. And then what I want to. And somehow it all works.

(It doesn't all work, who am I kidding? What I mean is,

they get what they want from me.)

. . .

_If we burn, you burn with us!_

. . .

And then there's a lie, an insult, and argument (meanwhile Peeta's looking worse than ever on TV)

. . .

And Gale says, "This is where you kissed me." I'd (hoped?) he forgotten that, (it really would make things easier if he had), but he tells me he'd have to be dead to forget…maybe not even then.

(what's the point of dying then? if you can't forget  _everything_?)

"Maybe I'm like that man in the song,"

(the lyrics ring in my head:  _Are you, Are you…_ )

There are tears in his eyes as he says this. I've never seen Gale cry before, and now I don't understand. So I lean in and kiss him, my attempt at an answer, however sloppy. But he pulls away, saying he knew I'd do that. ( _How?_  I didn't). He tells me I only did it because he was in pain, that's the only way anyone gets my attention. "Don't worry," he says, "it'll pass." (I don't worry—but I wonder if that's true.)

(I guess this is what I get for having shut him out for so long.

_(Is there still time to let him back in_?))

. . .

I don't have time to figure that out because all this happens very suddenly:

\- Plutarch is very happy

\- Peeta is bloody

\- Thirteen is bombed (and also covered in roses)

\- I decide I truly hate Buttercup

\- Prim is going to be a doctor

\- Gale saves her life (again)

\- And then he goes to save Peeta's

. . .

_I might lose both of them._

. . .

Finnick teaches me how to knot a rope.

(If they don't make it back,

I think I'll hang myself with it)

. . .

They both make it back.

I see Gale first, but go to Peeta (I don't know what that means).

And I don't get to figure it out—because he tries to kill me.

Hands around my neck, hate in his eyes, hate in his heart.

It turns out, Peeta's no good at killing me either.

( _Why is everyone so bad at this?)_

. . .

Peeta hates me. (more accurately, Peeta's  _been programed_  to hate me.) He apparently couldn't do it on his own—it really shouldn't be that hard, but such is the nature of Peeta—so the Capitol helped him out. I'm almost happy to have the excuse to stay away from him, and am not sure things would be any better were he okay ( _what would I do? what would I say?_ ) I'm being terribly selfish though, because Snow has ruined him. And Peeta didn't deserve that. So just when I thought I could be done with him, when I'd paid my debt by getting him free, I'm dragged back in one hundredfold. I don't know how I'll ever make up for this, but I think killing Snow might be a good start.

(I remind myself of that every day: I must kill Snow, I must kill Snow, I must kill Snow.)

. . .

I need to get away, so I go to 2, and there, in the woods, it's almost like home. The trees are a bit different, but Gale's with me, and it's  _almost_ like before.

We talk about how wrong everything is, and he says he could  _almost_ live with the rest of it if he believed it were true (read: if I wanted to be with him over Peeta.  _Want? What do I know about want? What I want is for this all to end.)_

To make it all end, I kiss him.

It works. I lose myself for a moment. I close my eyes and try to pretend that we're in our woods, and what the world would be like if I were kissing him there. And he kisses me. Lips moving slowly across my skin, taking away the pain of the bruises on my neck and making me feel alive.

(for so long the only touch I wanted on those marks were hands closing in to finish the job...but now?...maybe Gale's hands can undo Peeta's hurt, maybe his lips can take back his  _mutt.)_

When I open my eyes, I'm back in the wrong woods…I'm in the wrong world...and everything still hurts. I can't stand it. I want to go back into Gale—

Gale asks me:  _why_.

(why? Why does it matter? You're getting the kisses that you wanted. Isn't that enough _?)_

Gale's answer:  _that's not enough_.

(unfortunately, it's all I have to offer.)

I'd have let him take any part of my body at that moment—any part except the one he really wanted (read: my heart)—so he gives me back to myself, like he's handing me a  _gift,_ like he's giving me something _precious_. I almost hate him for it.

I want to tell him something that will make him hate me back, but the look in his grave-gray eyes, when he leaves, I realize maybe I already have...

( _and there's a whole new world of hurt_ )

. . .

The next day, he tears down a mountain. (his eyes are not only the color of tombstones now they're just as hard.)

For the first time, I realize that Gale's heart just might be as badly damaged as mine.

I try to make things better (and unsurprisingly fail). Another man tries to kill me (he unsurprisingly ((and disappointingly)) fails as well).

. . .

In my drug-dreams, I hear Peeta say  _always_ and remember Gale say  _almost._

(But when I wake up, I remember that Peeta hates me and rightly should. And Gale's the one who's there smoothing my hair and kissing me on my cheek.)

((after everything, he's still my  _friend_. I don't deserve it, but I take it. In some ways, it's the only thing I've got.))

. . .

_always...almost..._ always...almost

. . .

But I must kill Snow, so:

I make a plan and say goodbye to Prim.

(she tells me,  _next time we see each other, we'll be free)_

Gale comes with me and Peeta soon follows. (He starts to finally remember me; I don't have the heart to tell him I'm no longer that girl.)

And all this happens:

\- We break some glass

\- We film some stuff

\- Things start to explode

And

\- People begin to die

\- And they keep dying

(I am responsible for all of the deaths in varying degrees of directness. Some died just because they followed me, others because I show an arrow in their heart.)

. . .

When we make it to the Capitol, there's just me, Gale, Peeta, Cressida and Pollux. All I think is:

I must kill Snow. I must kill Snow. I must kill Snow.

I think this while we hide. I think this while we plan. I think this while Gale and Peeta talk.

I don't like what they say, but there isn't time to figure it out now.

( _Maybe one day there will be?)_

Because right now, all I can think is:

I must kill Snow. I must kill Snow. I must kill Snow.

. . .

Lots of people die: a girl in a yellow dress, several children, and then, a girl with yellow hair.

(That girl is my sister.)

. . .

 


	2. Finally Getting It Right

 

. . .

Loving Like Dying

(or is it dying like loving?

I'm not sure there's a difference now)

oh well…either way:

(Part Two:

or

Finally Getting It Right)

* * *

. . .

Prim is dead.

I am not dead.

( _why am I not dead?)_

I should be dead.

I want to be dead.

But I am not dead.

( _why am I still not dead?)_

I don't know if Peeta's dead.

I don't know if Gale's dead.

(I don't know if I care.)

Prim is dead.

I want to be dead.

But I must kill Snow.

. . .

I must kill Snow. I must kill Snow. I must kill Snow.

. . .

When someone finally comes by to talk to me, she says:

"don't worry, I've saved him for you."

( _who did I want her to save? Gale? Peeta?_

No—Snow.)

. . .

I must kill Snow. I must kill Snow. I must kill Snow.

. . .

I go and see him before I die ( _why? I don't know.)_

"I wanted to tell you _I'm very sorry about your sister."_

I think I might just kill him now.

He coughs. I think he might be dying on his own, and I'm just a bit disappointed.

"It was a masterful move on Coin's part. I'm sorry I missed it. But I was watching you. And you were watching me. I'm afraid we've both been played for fools."

. . .

He's lying. I can't trust him. I know he's lying. There's no way I can trust him. He must be lying. _Can I trust him?_

(and then I remember: Gale's bomb, Peeta's mission and my sister— _only thirteen..._ )

. . .

I will kill Coin. I will kill Coin. I will kill Coin.

(and then they'll kill me and all this will be over— _that thought makes me happier than you know.)_

. . .

But it won't make Gale happy. And it won't make Peeta happy. So I have to figure out how to make them let me go, so that when I do go, it won't be as bad.

. . .

Gale makes the job too easy for me

(he always has taken on an unfair share of the load).

When he comes to see him, his eyes are mausoleums for the world he (thought he) wanted. They are gray and cold and hard and filled with dead things.

Prim is one of those dead things. And since I am (about to be) too, I don't know how I can make this any easier on him. So I stand in silence and he walks away.

(I'd been thinking about what horrible things I might have to say

to make him hate me, to make him leave me,

to make him accept that he's lost me, but it turns out,

he already has, that hurts just a little bit more

than I thought it would.)

. . .

Peeta shows me no such ( _kindness?_ ). What I mean is, he doesn't make my job easy. But Coin allows me the perfect opportunity to remind him what a monster I am.

"No! We can't!" Peeta screams, eyes red and blue like sirens and signaling equal alarm.

I scream awful, hurtful things to him, show him I'm only full of hate and anger and death. The girl he knew is gone; he must see it. But he doesn't. _Oh, Peeta..._

"Your sister, she'd never want this! You know that, Katniss! You know that!"

That's true, I do know that. And I know Peeta knows it too. "I vote yes," I say evenly, "for Prim."

Peeta sinks in his chair, choking on his own sobs and the realization that the Katniss he knew is gone.

( _I feel kind of bad for him, but this will make it easier to accept things in the long run.)_

((also, I don't know why he fights so hard not to hate me, like I said before, it really shouldn't be that hard))

. . .

If if counts for anything, I don't really want there to be a vengeance _Hunger Games._ But Haymitch says, "I'm with the Mockingjay." And the votes are in favor, 4 to 3.

(I'm slightly touched by Haymitch's commitment to me, though I wish he'd called me _Katniss_ and not "the Mockingjay," and I briefly wonder if there's anything I can do to make his hurt less when I die, but then I realize there's nothing that will ever make Haymitch hurt less, and suppose it's just the same.)

. . .

I go out into the arena and shoot Coin.

I wait for someone to kill me. A guard's bullet, a soldier's shot. I wait for death, but it doesn't come. _I should have known I'd have to do this myself._ I turn to my shoulder to bite down, but meet flesh instead of nightlock.

Peeta's eyes are cracked with horror and hope.

(It turns out I hadn't made Peeta hate me enough; he won't let me go.)

"Gale!" I scream. "Gale! Shoot me!"

(Gale doesn't shoot me. I can't tell if he's there. Maybe he's let go too soon.)

. . .

They throw me into a cell and there I wait to die.

I wait.

And I wait.

And I keep waiting.

(I finally have all the time I need to figure it all out. How I feel about Gale. How I feel about Peeta. Only now, I nolonger care.)

. . .

I start singing _The Hanging Tree,_ hoping someone will catch on to the idea that I want to die.

(No one does, so I stop eating.)

. . .

One day, Haymitch opens more door. "Come on. We're going home."

He tells me there was a trial. And I was acquitted. Plutarch tells me I can be in another one of his shows.

"I'm done with games," I tell him. He only chuckles as he goes.

Haymitch asks me if I want to know who'll be waiting for me when we get home. I tell him no.

( _I try not to let myself wonder if either will be there.)_

Neither is, so I guess it doesn't matter.

. . .

(but when I go out, I always end up at our spot.

I close my eyes and count to ten

and sometimes think I'll see Gale there.)

(( _I have the time now to figure out what that means, but I don't want to.))_

_. . ._

So I sit on our rock and tie knots in a rope the way Finnick taught me to (he's dead too, by the way, but I finally see how this can be comforting) and don't realize I'm singing until I hear my tune echo in the trees.

_. . ._

"Are you, are you,"

The bird chimes my melody back.

"Coming to the tree,"

_I am,_ I think as I get up and walk over.

"The strung up a man,"

As I get close, I see a mockingjay, perched softly on the limb. He's all white. _It would have been nice to be white and not black._

"They say who murdered three,"

For the first time, I wonder who those men must have been to warrant the other man's hanging.

"Strange things did happen here,"

I've killed far more than three men...

"And no stranger would it be,"

And yet no one thought it right to hang me...

"If we met at midnight,"

I look for a branch strong enough to support me.

"In the hanging tree."

And climb up.

"Are you, are you,"

I start the second chorus...

"Coming to the tree,"

And remember when my father taught me this song.

"Where the dead man called out,"

I try to imagine his voice, not the bird's, not mine...

"For his love to flee,"

I almost choke on that line, but it's not time for that yet.

"Strange things did happen here,"

_They sure did,_ I think, looking out at the horizon. The sky is all blue, the field full of dandelions, green forests, gray mountains in the background.

"And no stranger would it be,"

_There really isn't anything strange about this. (Could anyone have honestly expected it to end any other way?)_

The mockingjay finally takes flight, carrying my tune with him. It's really a nicer gesture than I deserve. As I watch him go, I wonder if I might fly too.

"If we-"

The word "meet" doesn't escape my lips before the noose snaps my neck.

. . .

There is nothing after that.

(meaning: the end)

(read: _finally_ )

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

.


	3. Maybe Making It Better

 

 

 

. . .

The story's over, but there's also this:

. . .

 

Something Like Living

(Not Part Three – Just a thought I'd like to share)

Maybe Making it Better

 

* * *

As the author, I'm telling you the story has ended (but I'm also lying because here I am still writing.) You should know that morally, I'm very against romanticizing suicide, and literarilly, there's not in the text that allows me to think Katniss believed or hoped in any sort of afterlife. However artistically, I couldn't pass up this opportunity Collins's left, and emotionally, I'm not as cruel as you might be thinking. So, I offer you this in hopes it makes things better:

.

.

.

_When Katniss wakes up, the other side of the bed is no longer cold._

.

.

.

Go ahead and imagine whoever you want there—Gale. Peeta (please, not Peeta), though I imagine, most likely Prim, as Prim seems to be the true love of Katniss's life. But know that Katniss is now home, warm, and safe.


End file.
